The Last War
by Jessi D
Summary: There is a pause in the Hundred Years War but it's far from peaceful for England. His older brother is rebelling once more. A story of England and Wales.
1. Chapter I

**I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia.** I wish I did, though. Rated for lanuage.

Wales and Scotland will appear in the story and Ireland is mentioned. Their human names are: Wales – Gwydion ap Bledri (pronounced GWID-yon); Scotland – Alistair McMillan and Ireland – Dara Fitzgerald.

There are a lot of different languages used (what have I gotten myself into?): translations are at the end.

**Much thanks to Tensai-chan for correcting my abysmal Welsh! Diolch yn fawr! XD**

Please enjoy.

* * *

**Crécy, France**

**26****th**** August, 1346**

Arthur Kirkland scanned the approaching French army as if he would spot the wine-bastard among his citizens. He couldn't suppress a small qualm of worry at the sheer size of Francis' side though he knew English soldiers to be the finest in the civilised world. The scouts said that they were vastly outnumbered. The English army numbered only sixteen-thousand, even with the additional knights sent along by Denmark and the Holy Roman Empire. No one was certain how many soldiers the French side had brought to battle. Even the most optimistic estimate brought before King Edward put the number of French troops at twice as many as the English. It most likely was more.

England nudged his horse into motion. He had to believe that the King knew what he was doing – these tactics had worked in the fights against Scotland. And the King was risking his own flesh and blood – Prince Edward, only sixteen years of age, was commanding a division today.

Three divisions of men, all on foot for this battle, resting and waiting. The ditches and pits and other defences were finished and waiting was all that was left, watching the larger army approach.

"_Rhwyn wrth dy wregys gleddyf gwyn dy dad_."

England frowned. The singing floated over the hillside and more than a few soldiers were looking round, searching for the source. That smooth, lovely voice, contrasting so heavily with that barbarian tongue, could only belong to one person.

"_Atynt fy machgen dros wlad!_"

Arthur found Gwydion leaning against one of the new cannons brought with them for the battle. The dark-haired nation was calmly stringing his longbow, a formidable weapon that was taller than he was. England had personally experienced Welsh archery first-hand – chasing after his older brother's armies only to have them strike from their hiding places with devastating effect.

"_Mwg y pentrefydd gyfyd gyda'r gwynt,_" absorbed in his song, Gwydion didn't notice Arthur's approach, "_Draw dy gymrodyr ânt yn gynt._"

England remembered this song. Wales and his people had sung it in one of their rebellions. He shook the other nation by the shoulder. Green eyes met his own and hardened,

"Lloegr,"

"I don't recall asking you to come with me, Wales. In fact I ordered you to stay at home," Wales' counties were his and the conquered nation lived in his house but he didn't trust his older brother. The feeling was mutual.

"Aros yn Llundain? Ti'so pobl Cymreig i dy fyddinoedd? Ti'fo fi hyfed, ti'mod."

"As soon as my back is turned you'd be stabbing a knife into it. That's just what your kind is like."

Gwydion snarled wordlessly, his hand going to the sword at his hip.

"Admit it. None of you are fighting for me."

"Na' 'dyn. Ry ni'n ymladd fel fyddwn ni 'im yn newynu."

Wales' green eyes blazed in his pale face. He was always so angry, rejecting England's attempts to civilise him. He'd thought that the Celtic nation would have calmed under his influence. Gwydion pushed past Arthur, stalking off to where the rest of the archers were positioned. England watched him leave.

* * *

A cool wind ruffled Wales' hair and sent a shiver down his spine as it brushed over the exposed nape of his neck. No matter how many years past by Gwydion always missed the heavy weight of his curls. England had cut his hair after the conquered nation arrived in his house; clipped the long curls short, shorter even than a woman's tresses. As he'd done so many times before he cursed the English bastard and spat.

The French army was drawing closer and closer to the hill. Around him, the other archers, both English and Welsh were staking arrows into the ground in front of them so that they'd be quicker in battle. The order to begin firing would come soon.

"_Sych dy ddagrau, ar dy gyfrwy naid_," Gwydion drew an arrow from the earth and began to sing, beginning where England had interrupted him, "_Gwrando'r saethau'n suo fel seirff dibaid_," oh, yes, he would show Arthur. The Welsh people could still fight, "_Wrth dy fwa, hyn wna'th fraich yn gref,_" other voices were joining in, the triumphant war song mingling with the creak of bows, grunts of effort and the sounds of the approaching army, "_Cofia am dy dad, fel bu farw ef!_"

The command was given and a cloud of arrows flew into the sky.

* * *

Volleys of arrows had devastated the French ranks. The longbowmen had done their work well, Genoese mercenaries, French men-at-arms and even nobility had fallen before them. Only those with the very best in plate and mail had come through unscathed, if they survived their horses dying beneath them.

And that had been only the first bit of luck Arthur Kirkland had had that day. The wine-bastard must have lost his horse because his elaborate and decorated armour was splattered with mud from head-to-toe. England hoped that France had been made to crawl through the same filth as the rest of his army.

"Francis!" England drew his sword, slashing out at the other nation. The blade thudded into France's shield, scarring the coat-of-arms.

"Mon cher," replied France, a grin spreading across his face.

The two nations exchanged blows and it soon became clear that France could not win this. He was a good swordsman but he was tired from struggling through fields and mud whereas England was rested and fresh. But still the blue-eyed nation would not stop grinning.

"Wanker!"

"Fils a puitan!"

"Fucking Frog!"

"Va te faire foutre, enculé!"

"Goddamn it! Wipe that smirk off your face, wine-bastard!"

"Ah, but Arthur," said Francis, "I'm just happy to have you all to myself."

England would have dismissed that comment as France just being France. However…

They were all alone – isolated and cut off from both armies.

A blood-curdling howl was the only warning Arthur got. He dodged but only just, a massive sword biting into the earth before him. Snarling, Scotland whirled; swinging that wicked blade he called a _claidheamh da laimh_ like it weighed nothing. Arthur ducked under the blade, smashing Alistair back with his shield. The red-haired nation staggered but he recovered and the mad smile on his face returned.

"You see, I have friends too, Angleterre. Friends like L'Ecosse. Now, return my vital regions to me!"

"Fuck off!"

Alistair swung his sword again. England could keep avoiding the Scotsman's blows but he could see France circling round. An attack from both sides could finish him.

"Yr Alban! Peida!"

Gwydion had appeared out of nowhere. His sword was drawn and bloody but he'd stuck it point-down into the earth. Instead he had an arrow aimed at France. At this range a longbow couldn't miss. But Wales' eyes were fixed on his brother,

"Plïs, Alistair! Cer, os gwelwch yn dda!"

Scotland took a step towards Wales, readying his sword. Gwydion was trembling and not just from the effort needed to keep his bow drawn.

Seeing his chance Arthur threw his sword down, seizing a handful of red hair and pulling his head back. Before either Francis or Alistair could react he'd drawn his knife and laid it against the redhead's throat.

"You've lost this battle, Francis. Retreat while you still can."

The Frenchman glowered,

"I will return, Angleterre. The English will not rule in France," he began to stalk off but stopped to bow to Gwydion, "Le Pays de Galles," he waved, "Ken a vo gwelet!"

Gwydion lowered his bow in surprise,

"Hwyl fawr," he managed to mutter in reply.

Once France had vanished, England let Scotland go. His hand immediately went to his sword, just in case but all that Alistair did was follow his ally.

"Brawd!" Gwydion called after the redhead but even that failed to get a reaction.

* * *

"Your people fought bravely, Gwydion," England was shifting through reports of the battle with ever increasing glee. The blonde-haired country smiled in the older nation's direction though Wales thought it was directed more to the longbow he had in his hands than to himself.

"Maen nhw'n Gymry," said the older nation simply.

"I'm rewarding them, you know. Each of them is getting an acre of land back home, a personal gift from the King."

Gwydion's hands curled into fists. That was Welsh land. It should have been theirs already! His beautiful Cymru was not England's to parcel out…

Except to say this would mean that his people would not receive the land and their families would have to keep suffering under English landowners. Swallowing his pride Wales muttered,

"Diolch yn fawr."

All that could console Gwydion that night was that his people would be a little better off. It did not diminish his anger towards his younger brother.

* * *

**Translations**

Unless noted, all these are translated from Welsh.

**Rhwyn wrth dy wregys gleddyf gwyn dy dad****, **

**Atynt fy machgen****! dros wlad! **

**Mwg y pentrefydd gyfyd gyda'r gwynt,**

**Draw dy gymrodyr ânt yn gynt.**

Fast to thy girdle fix thy father's brand

Forth then his slayers to withstand!

Hamlets are smoking in their evil path,

Rise, Cymru's champions, in your wrath!

(This is from the Welsh war song _Rhyflel Capten Morgan_ – or Captain Morgan's March. This is the first half of the first verse – the other half is below. There are many different English versions of the song. I just chose the one that fitted best with the story.)

**Lloegr** – England

**Aros yn Llundain? Ti'so pobl Cymreig i dy fyddinoedd? Ti'fo fi hyfed, ti'mod.** – Stay in London? You want Welsh people for your armies? You've got me too, you know.

**Na' 'dyn. Ry ni'n ymladd fel fyddwn ni 'im yn newynu.** – No we are not. We are fighting so that we won't starve.

**Sych dy ddagrau, ar dy gyfrwy naid,**

**Gwrando'r saethau'n suo fel seirff dibaid,**

**Wrth dy fwa, hyn wna'th fraich yn gref,**

**Cofia am dy dad, fel bu farw ef!**

No more weeping! To the saddle spring!

O hark the rising arrows like serpents sing!

Now remember, as you bend your bow,

Your sire within his chamber cold and low.

**Fils a puitan!** – (French) Son of a whore!

**Va te faire foutre, enculé!** – (French) Fuck you, bastard!

**Claidheamh da laimh** – (Scottish Gallic) A two-handed sword known in English as a claymore.

**Angleterre** – (French) England

**L'Ecosse** – (French) Scotland

**Yr Alban! Peida!** – Scotland! Don't!

**Plïs, Alistair! Cer, os gwelwch yn dda! **– Please, Alistair! Go away, please!

**Le Pays de Galles** – (French) Wales

**Ken a vo gwelet** – (Breton) Good bye

**Hwyl fawr** – Good bye

**Brawd!** – Brother!

**Maen nhw'n Gymry** – They are Welshmen

**Cymru** – Wales

**Diolch yn fawr** – Thank you very much

* * *

**Historical Notes**

The Battle of Crécy was part of the Hundred Years War and it was a decisive victory for the English thanks to their superior position and longbowmen – many of whom were Welsh. Even after they'd run out of arrows the archers would join in the fight alongside the men-at-arms using swords and mauls (hammers). When the Welsh soldiery returned home they were indeed given an acre of land each for their bravery.

In the same year the English fought the allies of France, the Scottish, in the Battle of Neville's Cross. It turned out much the same. (There were no actual Scottish troops at the Battle of Crécy but consider it artistic license on my part. Not to mention battles seem to work that way in Hetalia.)

France uses the Breton language in this chapter – which is one of the Celtic languages. It is very similar to Cornish and Welsh and if you speak one it said that you can understand the others. It'll return later on it the story.

Wales refers to his hair being 'shorter than a woman's'. In medieval Wales long hair was thought to be used by women to tempt in men. Women had their hair cut short as a result but like other Celtic cultures men grew their hair long.

Gwydion sings very well. Wales is known as 'the Land of Song' and many famous singers have come from Wales. We have an ancient bardic tradition.

* * *

Ah, this may be the most fact-filled thing I have ever done! Next chapter is the beginning of the rebellion!


	2. Chapter II

**London, England**

**August, 1394**

England had spent centuries at war – mostly with his troublesome older brothers and with France. On the battlefield he'd learnt the virtues of planning, of valour and caution. It was the last of these merits that he made use of as he carefully opened the door to his home.

By all rights he shouldn't have to sneak into his own home. But ever since he started to share his home with Wales and Ireland coming through his front door became a gamble everyday. Arthur knew that his bosses' plans for unity were right and good and the only way that they would be strong. But sometimes he felt that the English management of their affairs gave Gwydion and Dara far too much time on their hands to conspire against him. It only got worse in times such as these when the Irish grew unruly and Dara fled back across the sea to his island. Admittedly he only had to deal with one nation then but it was a nation that both bore him a grudge and was bored.

However, today there was no nation lunging forward to tackle him to the ground, he'd not been soaked in any combination of vile fluids from the kitchen and there was no stream of abuse coming from the upper floors where Gwydion liked to lurk. Arthur crept further in. No servants were screaming. There were no livestock in his house. Nothing appeared to be on fire.

In fact, it was too quiet. Even if Wales hadn't done something he was usually singing to himself in some corner of the house or ensconced in his room fiddling with his harp.

If Gwydion had fled like Dara then there could be an uprising happening this very minute. Arthur slammed the door behind him, charging up the stairs. He had to get his sword and his bow then get to London. He had to act quickly before the Welsh did too much damage and undid all of his king's work.

"Mor swnllyd! Tawelu!"

Gwydion's voice came from downstairs. The dark-haired nation was hunched over one of England's books. Instead of engaging in petty vandalism, Wales was frowning with concentration, occasionally making a note on a blank sheet next to him. The last time Arthur remembered Gwydion and the art of writing meeting was when Wales and Ireland had hidden his entire supply of ink and waited until he was asleep before covering the walls with insults in Gallic and Welsh.

"What do you have there, Wales?" Arthur's hand closed around his knife. There was the possibility that this was not his older brother but a spy, sent here to steal England's secrets.

"Mae'n llyfr, twpsyn sais."

Well the insults were certainly right, as was the language.

"But what are you doing?"

"Darllen. Be arall, twpsyn?" now Gwydion had arisen from the pages, fixing him with that glare that was unmistakably Welsh, "Be ydy o?"

England retreated, careful not to turn his back on the angry nation. There had to an explanation.

* * *

Wales' new-found bookishness remained unexplained until England was summoned to the court of Richard II. Arthur, his livery adorned with the king's white hart, entered the court only to meet the amused green eyes of Gwydion ap Bledri. Though startled he kept his cool, bowing deeply over King Richard's hand.

"High Majesty."

"Sir Kirkland," a smile crossed Richard's handsome face. The king was still young, though June had seen the seventeenth year of his reign begin. Richard had come to power at the age of fourteen, the Black Prince dying before his father, before he could become Edward IV, "We are glad to see our nation once more."

"Bore da, Lloegr," said Wales from his nest of books and paper and parchment. His clothes were of the best quality nothing as fine as the ones he'd refused from Arthur before. On his breast there was sown a scarlet dragon and on the other was Richard's white deer.

"I did not expect you here, Wales."

"It is all part of our plan, Sir Kirkland," said the King, rising from his throne, "Like we discussed before to break the power of those who would threaten my authority."

"Wales is a part of this, Royal Majesty?"

"We are leaving London," the king ignored Arthur's gasp and continued, "to establish a new court in Cheshire. The counties of Wales are being given to those loyal to us and Sir ap Bledri is learning, along with his people, how to fill the posts my men shall create. If some of the nobility would turn against us, why then we have the loyalty of Wales and of England themselves," he touched Gwydion's dark curls and the nation smiled.

"High Majesty, we still have trouble in Ireland."

"Only a matter of time until we shall take it back. There is peace with France and our neighbours in Scotland are quiet," Richard's smile broadened, "We shall be safe."

Arthur was not certain who Richard was referring to – to all of them or merely to himself.

* * *

**Tower of London**

**13****th**** October, 1399**

Arthur Kirkland was no allowed to see his former king. Instead Gwydion was brought from the tower to where he waited outside. The difference between them was stark, just coming from the coronation Arthur was dressed in his best whereas his brother's clothes were ragged and filthy.

England knew that his volatile temper was shared by his older brothers and that their mouths got them into trouble more than once. He wondered what exactly Wales had said to Henry Bolingbroke, now Henry IV, King of England and Lord of Ireland, to get the nation brought to the tower along with the former king Richard.

When Wales spotted England's coronation clothes his gaze hardened. As soon as he got in range he spat full in Arthur's face,

"Bradwr!"

"What could I do, Gwydion? He's my king now and you know what that means."

"_Richard_ oedd dy frenin di! Beth iti'n wneud?"

Arthur had not been with Richard when he was captured. Henry Bolingbroke had marched through England's lands while the king had been in Ireland and, after destroying much of Cheshire, had summoned the king to Conwy Castle. Speed had been everything and Conwy was in North Wales, territory that Gwydion was intimately familiar with. Only Wales had gone to meet Bolingbroke with the king.

"Come home. We can discuss this there."

"Beth am pobl Cymru?" Wales remained rooted to the spot, "Cawson ni eu addo…"

"At home, Wales."

The capital was most definitely back in London and Richard's favourites had no power. There would be few opportunities for the Welsh now.

* * *

**Chester, England**

**10****th**** January, 1400**

On the border between England and Wales, they'd found Piers Legh, captain of Richard II's archers. He was hanged publicly, still wearing the monk disguise that had failed him. What the guards and soldiers did not expect was the rioting that followed.

The Welsh had not forgotten Richard II who languished in Pontefract Castle.

For his part Gwydion smashed and tore his way through Arthur's home until the younger nation managed to overpower the Welshman and lock him in his room. Meals were taken in silence with Wales glaring at England over the empty space where Ireland had sat. To be safe England confiscated his older brother's weapons and locked them away.

The Welsh were restless. Similarly Gwydion paced the corridors and rooms of England's home only stopping to stare out into the west.

* * *

**Translation Notes**

**Mor swnllyd! Tawelu!** – So noisy! Quiet!

**Mae'n llyfr, twpsyn sais** – A book, English idiot

**Darllen. Be arall, twpsyn****?** – Reading. What else, idiot?

**Be ydy o****?** – What is it?

**Bore**** da, Lloegr** – Good morning, England

**Bradwr!** – Traitor!

**Richard**** oedd dy frenin di! Beth iti'n wneud? –** Richard was your king. What are you doing?

**Beth am pobl Cymru?** – What about the people of Wales?

**Cawson ni eu addo**** …** – We were promised…

* * *

**Historical Notes**

The years 1389 to 1415 is known as the Second Peace of the Hundred Years War. Richard the Second did work for peace with France but the pause in the fighting was mainly due to internal strife in both countries, such as uprisings in Ireland and Wales and Richard II being overthrown.

Richard II did indeed want to move his capital to Cheshire. He was a great believer in the divine right of kings and so was quite unpopular with the nobles. A lot of land in Wales was given to his various favourites and many new posts were filled by Welsh people. He had a lot of support in Wales as a result. In contrast under the reign of Henry IV opportunities for the Welsh were suddenly very limited and support for the deposed king remained high for a long time – sometimes leading to riots such as the ones in Chester.

* * *

Alright, alright I may have lied. The rebellion starts next chapter. There will be Welsh awesomeness aplenty I can assure you.

Diolch yn fawr and thank you very much again to my lovely beta **Tensai-chan**!


	3. Chapter III

Sorry for the long conversation in Welsh in this chapter – but one of the purposes of this fic is for me to get some practise writing Welsh. Like always, translations are at the end. Now fixed by **Tensai-chan** who also made me laugh with her email (for some reason "Owain Glyndŵr is very polite" sends me into giggling fits).

* * *

**England's House, London**

**13****th**** September, 1400**

England crept through the side-door of his home. It irked him considerably that he was reduced to this but Wales' behaviour had become worse lately – to the extent that going through the front door carried the risk of serious injury. Arthur was reluctant to leave Gwydion to his own devices and had to assign two of his burliest servants to watch over the older nation. It was a mirror-image of Welsh discontent, Gwydion reflecting his people's restlessness.

The door closed without a sound. Not that Arthur was worried about Gwydion hearing him, mind you. It was necessary to catch Wales in the act, of course. Nothing else!

True-to-form there were muffled noises coming from the library. Savouring the anticipation of seeing Gwydion's shocked face when he foiled the Welshman's nefarious plan, Arthur swiftly headed in that direction.

As he'd suspected the door was locked, but to England's surprise it was locked from the outside, the key tossed carelessly to the corridor floor. And the noises were being made by the house servants, every single one, right down to the meanest kitchen maid. So he'd arrived too late to stop this scheme. Growling under his breath, Arthur marched up to Gwydion's room, mentally preparing for another argument or fist-fight.

The Welshman was not there. The bed was neatly made and his few books tidied away but he'd torn the curtains from the window (facing west, towards his former home, of course). He'd treated the material roughly and left ragged strips of cloth behind. But in stark contrast he'd lovingly shrouded the harp in the corner in the purloined fabric, carefully covering every inch of his beloved instrument.

Arthur touched the ragged edge of the curtain and the smooth body of the harp beneath it, his bushy brows furrowed. This was most unusual behaviour, even for his strange older brother.

Well, if he wanted to find out the reasons behind it then he'd have to find Gwydion first. Venturing out into the corridor, he saw that his study door was open. Perhaps Wales was causing mischief in there.

The study was decorated with his flag and a map of his territories, and richly appointed in fine furniture. It had included a large chest pushed against the wall. Inside was Gwydion ap Bledri's war gear; the green-and-white raiment he wore in battle; a finely balanced sword; and his eponymous longbow all locked away. Arthur had commissioned the finely carved strongbox. It was made from Gwydion's much-loved Welsh Oak.

There were splinters scattered across the floor. Wales had dispensed with subtly and taken the kitchen axe to the trunk. The lid gaped wide open, weapons gone, only the tabard left, thrown carelessly to one side.

In a final gesture Gwydion had taken the axe and driven it into the wall, into the map of England's territories, those that had always been his and those that had belonged to Wales and Ireland. The hatchet blade split the sheet in two, Dara Fitzgerald and Gwydion ap Bledri on one side, Arthur Kirkland alone on the other.

* * *

**Ruthin, North Wales**

**16****th**** September, 1400**

On a hill outside the town of Ruthin, Owain Glyndŵr was proclaimed Prince of Wales by a small band of his followers. They'd not noticed Gwydion ap Bledri, despite the fact that the nation was outfitted for war. He hovered in the shadows, eyes fixed on the new _Tywysog Cymru_.

Glyndŵr was long past his fortieth year and his hair was entirely grey, not a fairy-tale prince at all. But he was one of Gwydion's _uchelwyr_, an heir to Cadwaladr. From his father's side he could lay claim to the Lordship of Glyndyfrdwy and the Black Lion of Powys. From his mother's side the princes of Deheubarth. Wales' heart would have swelled with pride but his nails were digging into his palms, so angry was he that the English king had visited his proud child with insults and malice.

But the dark-haired nation kept his composure. After all he was nearly a thousand years old. There had been heroes, all such brave children, before. But that was before the banner was unfurled.

Two scarlet lions on gold and two golden lions on red, the familiar colours of the princes of Gwynedd. But their lions had been passive. Glyndŵr's lions were rampant – rearing with extended claws and bared teeth. Ready for war.

Wales could remember dancing with an expression of wild glee, face smeared in black and blue war paint. The banner of Llywelyn Fawr had been flung across his shoulders like a cloak and he'd sang, roared, and bellowed his words to the sky.

And just like that the scene before him was blurring and then he was bawling like a child. All his composure fled as he fell to his knees, tears coursing unashamedly down his face.

"Ti'n iawn, fachgen?"

Still sniffing, still with great fat tears falling from his eyes, Gwydion looked up. Owain Glyndŵr, his new _tywysog_, was standing before him, one hand resting on his sword. Behind him, there were many other pairs of eyes fixed on the dark-haired nation. How strange it must have looked. What appeared to be a young man, perhaps a handful of years over twenty, with a longbow over his shoulder and a sword on his belt, sobbing in the shadows. It made Wales start to laugh through his tears, which in turn did nothing to reassure his children.

"Fy enw i ydy Owain Glyndŵr," he spoke slowly as if addressing a child or a halfwit, "Beth yw'ch enw chi?"

"Gwydion ap Bledri," he forced his voice to remain steady, for his tears to stop and for a smile to cross his face, "Rydw i Cymru."

The new prince blinked in confusion, running a hand through his grey hair,

"I think you meant something different there, lad. Rydw i'n Cymro – that's how to say you're Welsh. Though your name is Welsh enough. Gwydion – like the magician."

So he'd switched to English, so he thought… Gwydion's temper suddenly flared,

"Dwi'm yn Sais!"

Glyndŵr threw his head back and laughed,

"Da iawn!"

"_Rydw i Cymru_!" the dark-haired nation dashed the last of his tears from his cheeks, "Rydw i'n eich cartref a'ch wlad," Glyndŵr opened his mouth but Wales spoke first, "Gwelais i chi'n ymladd – yn Yr Alban a Ffrainc. Roeddwn i yn ymyl Richard yn Ffranic. Roeddwn i'n wisgo carw gwyn a ddraig Cadwaladr."

"Bachgen… Gwydion, rydych ti'n rhy ifanc."

Gwydion laughed,

"Rydw i naw chant mlwydd oed. Roeddwn i'n wedi nabod Cadwaladr a Llywelyn Fawr."

"Felly, ble rydych chi wedi bod?" Wales recognised that tone. It was the same the world over, the same tone used when nations revealed themselves, a mixture of disbelief, awe and, so often in times like this, hope.

"Llundain," the Celt's smile faded, "Am amser hir… Rydw i wedi dod adre i'ch helpu chi, fy Nhywysog." Gwydion bowed deeply, holding the position and staring at the earth before him.

There was a long pause. Then Gwydion felt heavy material being draped over his shoulders,

"Gwlad neu twpsyn, dod â ni lwc dda Gwydion ap Bledri." Glyndŵr ruffled Wales' dark curls then walked back to his followers. Gwydion followed, with four lions rampant across his shoulders.

* * *

**Translation Notes**

**Tywysog Cymru** – Prince of Wales. Tywysog literally means "one who leads" and was applied to Welsh kings and ruling princes though in modern Welsh it can mean any prince.

**U****chelwyr**– Welsh nobility descended from pre-Conquest royalty

**Ti'n iawn, fachgen?** – Are you alright, lad?

**Fy enw i ydy Owain ****Glyndŵr** – My name is Owain Glyndŵr

**Beth yw'ch enw chi?**– What is your name?

**Rydw i Cymru** – I am Wales

**Rydw i Cymro** – I am Welsh

**Dwi'm yn Sais****!** – I'm not English!

**Da iawn!** – Well done!

**Rydw i eich cartref a gwlad** – I am your home and land

**Gwelais i chi ymladd – yn Yr Alban a Ffrainc. Roeddwn i yn ymyl Richard yn Ffranic. Roeddwn i gwisgo carw gwyn a ddraig Cadwaladr****.** – I saw you fight – in Scotland and France. I was next to Richard in France. I wore the white deer and Cadwaladr's dragon.

**Bachgen… Gwydion, rydych ti'n rhy ifanc** – Lad… Gwydion, you're much too young.

**Rydw i naw c****hant mlwydd oed. Roeddwn i'n wedi nabod Cadwaladr a Llywelyn Fawr.** – I knew Cadwaladr and Llywelyn the Great.

**Felly, ble rydych chi wedi bod****?** – Then where have you been?

**Llundain** – London

**Am amser hir****… –** For a long time…

**Rydw i wedi**** dod adre i'ch helpu chi, fy Nhywysog** – I have come home to help you, my prince

**Gwlad neu twpsyn****, dod â ni lwc dda Gwydion ap Bledri** – Nation or fool, bring us good luck, Gwydion ap Bledri

* * *

**Historical Notes**

Owain Glyndŵr has, since the nineteenth century, become an important figure for Wales and Welsh nationalism – often on par with King Arthur. He was the last native Welsh person to hold the title of Prince of Wales, which makes him Owain IV of Wales. He instigated a long-running revolt against the English rule of Wales. This started when his English (and anti-Welsh) neighbour, Reginald Grey, the Third Baron Grey de Ruthyn, stole some of his land. He appealed to Parliament under King Richard II and won, but Grey de Ruthyn was a good friend of the new king Henry IV and with his influence the decision was overturned.

Grey de Ruthyn then withheld a Royal Summons to join the Scottish campaigns from Glyndŵr, meaning that the Welshman had unwittingly committed treason. Declared a traitor, with his estates forfeit and the Baron Grey de Ruthyn using force, Glyndŵr had no choice but to fight, which is where we come in.

Incidentally some say that Glyndŵr sleeps in a hidden cave, ready to come again at some great crisis, much like King Arthur and other heroes. He is also a character in Shakespeare's _Henry IV_ (though his name is anglicised to Owen Glendower). In a poll of the 100 Greatest Britons in 2002 he came 23rd and, if memory serves was the highest Welshman on the list.

Glyndyfrdwy and Deheubarth are pre-Conquest kingdoms of Wales. The Black Lion of Powys is a reference to the banner of the kingdom of Powys Fadog. Cadwaladr and Llywelyn Fawr are Welsh rulers and ancestors of Glyndŵr.

Glyndŵr's banner of the four lions is still used today, often at sporting events against the English. For a while they were banned from stadiums because the banner is political in nature and origin.

The name Gwydion (GWID-yon) is taken from the Mabinogi, the collection of Welsh folklore and fairy tales, and is indeed the name of a magician, Gwydion ap Don. Gwydion ap Don lends his name to the galaxy of the Milky Way – which in Welsh is _Caer Gwydion_ (Gwydion's Castle). While on the subject, Wales' surname is taken from the words _blaidd _(wolf) and _rhi_ (king). Put together Bledri (BLED-ree) means 'leader of warriors' or 'leader of outlaws' – quite apt for the story, don't you think. The 'ap' is the old Welsh naming system meaning 'son of'. That's why Bledri is actually a first name.

In 1400 Wales is roughly about nine-hundred years old. A distinct Welsh identity emerged in the fifth century after the Romans left Britain (in comparison England was a collection of warring kingdoms until the ninth century). In my personal Hetalia head canon Britannia (modern-day England and Wales), Hibernian (Ireland) and Caledonia (Scotland) are part of the 'older generation' with Germania and Ancient Rome. Wales and the others are the children of these older nations.

Being mistaken for English annoys and angers Welsh people greatly. In foreign countries we will go to great lengths to explain we are not English, overcoming language barriers and geographical ignorance if necessary.

The harp is the Welsh national instrument. Welsh Oak (Sessile Oak) is the national tree, which we also share with Ireland. England's national tree is the English Oak (Royal Oak).

* * *

**Jessi: **More and more facts. I hope everyone is finding this interesting.


	4. Chapter IV

**26****th**** September**

**Shrewsbury**** Castle, England**

Henry IV remembered Gwydion, not only as the nation of Wales but as the young man who had so insulted him at Conwy Castle. He still did not divulge what had been said but when news of Glyndŵr and Wales' rebellion reached the king he wasted no time in moving to quash it. Even though his army, along with Arthur, had been marching north to invade Scotland, His Majesty had turned them back to the south and now they were preparing to enter North Wales.

Henry's agents had been hard at work and their reports were in Arthur's hands. It made for difficult reading.

Glyndŵr's men had spread through the north-east of Wales. First to fall had been the town of Ruthin, home to his rival, De Grey. The place was almost completely destroyed. Denbigh, Rhuddlan, Flint, Hawarden and Holt had followed. Oswestry was so badly damaged it would have to be re-chartered. Just two days ago Powis Castle had been attacked and Welshpool sacked.

And in the north-west, the Tudur brothers, Gwilym and Rhys were fighting a guerrilla war against the English. England remembered them from Richard's campaigns in Ireland, both Captains of Welsh archers – like Gwydion ap Bledri had been. And, like Gwydion, they had quickly sworn allegiance to Glyndŵr (a cousin of theirs, apparently).

Arthur glanced out the window, towards the west and the mountains of Wales. The English army would crush this rebellion, there was simply no other way it could be.

* * *

**31****st**** March, 1401**

**Conwy**

Henry IV had returned to Shrewsbury Castle on the 14th October, less than three weeks after he'd left. Harassed by unceasing rain and Welsh guerrillas he'd been broken and defeated. Meanwhile, Gwydion had accompanied Glyndŵr and the Tudur brothers across north and central Wales, attacking English towns, castles and manors.

Wales had even been in the south, in Brecon and Gwent, places that had fallen centuries before Gwynedd. Here there had been bandits calling themselves _Plant Owain_, the Children of Owain.

Henry Percy, the legendary Hotspur, had been given the order to bring the country under control. And just this month he'd issued an amnesty to all the rebels that fought under Owain's cause, with the exception of three men: Owain Glyndŵr and his cousins, Rhys and Gwilym, sons of Tudur ap Gronw.

Gwydion knew that his name was on that list, officially or not. So he'd not returned to London but was instead surveying the mighty fortress of Conwy Castle. The garrison was only fifteen men-at-arms and sixty archers, but well-supplied and easily reinforced by sea. And the Tudurs only had forty men.

"Er mwyn Duw," sighed Gwilym, eyes fixed on the high walls.

"Dros achos Owain," corrected Gwydion, "Dros Gymru."

"Dros ein chroen hefyd," Rhys rubbed his neck as if imagining a noose around it, "Uffern dân! Os ydy ni'n methu…"

"Paid a phoeni! Cofio'r cynllun," Wales smiled, his fingers curled in the banner he wore about his shoulders, today concealed under his cloak, "Yfory, dynion."

* * *

**3****rd**** April**

**Outside Conwy Castle**

Four lions flew above the castle, two gold-on-red, two red-on-gold. Arthur looked at the flag then back down to the garrison that stood before him.

"Tell me," he rubbed his forehead, feeling his headache getting worse, "Tell me again how this happened?"

It happened, according to the garrison, on 1st April. It was Good Friday and all but two of the soldiers were in church. A carpenter had come to the gate for his usual work and the two guards on duty had let the man in as usual. However, as soon as that happened the Welshman had attacked the pair and thrown open the gate to the rest of the Tudur brothers' men.

Now the castle was sealed and bolted and the Welsh had settled in for a long siege.

Something bounced off his armour and Arthur flinched before he realised it was a tiny pebble. Another one narrowly missed him and the nation of England glared up at the walls.

A slender man was standing at the battlements. He waved once to catch Arthur's attention than forked his fingers into a rude gesture. Wales.

"How many are they?" he asked, his eyes not leaving the figure of his brother on the wall.

"We're not sure, but they couldn't be more than three dozen to get into Conway undetected."

Arthur grinned widely. He had come to Conway from Denbigh with Hotspur with over four hundred men. They had more than ten times the men that the defenders!

"Fucking barefoot Welsh dogs won't know what hit them!"

* * *

**Three months later,**

The treasury couldn't support their siege. And all their attempts to storm the castle had been unsuccessful. Conway had been built by Edward I, one of a series of mighty castles that ringed the country of Wales.

Arthur spat and swore at the four lions that fluttered mockingly above the castle walls. Hotspur began negotiations with the Welsh.

* * *

"Rydy nhw wedi cynnig pardwn."

Gwydion had been asleep and was still rubbing his eyes, wrapped in his cloak. Like the others who'd been sleeping he'd been summoned outside, blinking in the sunlight. Most of the men were down from the wall and only a few were keeping an eye on the besieging English. Wales hoped that there would be no treachery from them. He remembered what had happened with Llywelyn the Last.

"Rydy nhw wedi cynnig pardwn," repeated Rhys. His expression was not as joyful as expected from such news. In fact both Tudurs were grim-faced and solemn, "Ond mae yna… amodau."

"Pardwn llawn, i bob un person yma. Am gyfnewid o naw ddyn." Gwilym finished for his brother.

"Naw ddyn? Beth am?" at their look Wales shook his head, eyes widening in horror, "Na… Na…"

* * *

They were building gallows, a little way away from the castle walls. From the top of the wall there would be an excellent view of the violence about to take place.

* * *

"Na! Na! Na!" both Tudur brothers had Gwydion ap Bledri by the arms as the nation struggled. Everyone, from the men on the ground, to those who were supposed to be watching the English, to the nine volunteers standing before them, was watching him, "Fyddai ddim yn gadael hwn i ddigwydd!"

Silence reined in Conwy Castle, broken only by Wales' screaming,

"Gadewch i fi fynd ynlle! Mi wnai e drosot nhw! Rho fi lan i'r Saeson!"

"Allai ddim wneud hynna, syr," one of the volunteers lifted his head, giving Gwydion a rueful smile, "Mae Glyndŵr yn eich angen chi."

* * *

The English kept their word. Thirty of Glyndŵr's rebels filed from the castle, trying not to look at the English soldiers either side of them or at the nine, broken and bloody lumps of meat that swung gently in the breeze.

The thirty-first rebel wept constantly, great silent tears ran down his cheeks as he froze, staring at the nine dead men. Arthur Kirkland reached out for the nation but Wales tore himself away with a cry of rage. All England got was an angry hiss before Gwydion went after his countrymen.

* * *

**Historical Notes**

The English found it really hard to fight against Glyndŵr's rebellion – the guerrilla tactics used meant that they never encountered any significant portion of the Welsh forces. Glyndŵr's men also knew the land very well and used that, along with the bad weather, to their advantage.

The commonest explanation for why the Tudur brothers took Conwy Castle is that they wanted to negotiate for a pardon themselves and needed the fortress as a bargaining chip. Whether it was their intention or not their siege exposed the poor state of the English treasury, as they couldn't afford to pay the army that waited outside of Conwy. It also showed that a small force could hold off a much larger one given the right fortress.

One of the terms of the negotiation was that the rebels would give nine of their own over to the besieging army to be executed. Some English sources say that the Tudur brothers bound and gagged nine men and gave them to the army. Others say that the men volunteered themselves, knowing that the Tudurs were needed by Glyndŵr and that is the version I was taught.

Most of the rebels accepted the amnesty and returned to their homes. But news of what had happened at Conwy increased sympathy towards Glyndŵr's cause and the peace was short-lived.

England refers to Conwy as Conway which is the English name. These days the town is known in both languages as Conwy.

Incidentally the Tudur family were the ancestors of a man called Harri Tudur, who became Henry VII, first monarch of the Tudor dynasty. Remember in one of my previous fics when England said that a Welshman would never be crowned in London? :D

* * *

**Translation Notes**

**Er mwyn Duw – **For God's sake

**Dros achos Owain – **For Owain's cause

**Dros Gymru – **For Wales

**Dros ein chroen hefyd – **For our skins too

**Uffern dân! Os ydy ni'n methu… – **Fires of Hell! If we fail…

**Paid a phoeni! Cofio'r cynllun – **Don't worry! Remember the plan

**Yfory, dynion – **Tomorrow, men

**Rydy nhw wedi cynnig pardwn – **They've offered a pardon

**Ond mae yna… amodau – **But there are conditions

**Pardwn llawn, i bob un person yma. Am gynfnewid o naw ddyn – **A full pardon, for everyone here. In exchange for nine men.

**Naw ddyn? Beth am?** – Nine men? What for?

**Na - ** No

**Fyddai ddim yn gadael hwn i ddigwydd! – **I won't let this happen!

**Gadewch i fi fynd ynlle! Mi wnai e drosot whw! Rho fi lan i'****r Saeson! – **Let me go instead! I'll do it instead of them! Offer me to the English!

**Allai ddim wneud hynna, syr – **Can't do that, sir

**Mae ****Glyndŵr yn eich angen chi – **Glyndŵr needs you

* * *

**Jessi:** Thanks go once again to Tensai-chan my lovely beta. Thank you also to everyone who has read and reviewed thus far :)


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